Relative Insanity
by gravity01
Summary: "Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage." AU/Kay-based. After some convincing, Erik's mother decided it would be best to send him to the asylum, after all.
1. Chapter 1

Hi folks. With Halloween looming, I was feeling inspired to start something with a "it was a dark and stormy night" idea. This is a primarily AU fic... it is Kay-compliant up until Erik is 8-9 years old, then it splits off into a different direction. There will be the occasional mention of various instances in the novel, when remembering Erik's childhood. So, if you haven't read it and need clarification, just let me know.

In the summary, I use a quote by Ray Bradbury: "Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."

-0-0-0-0-

_**Spring 1840**_

"Marry me!" the doctor pleaded. "You cannot go on like this. We can start a new life together."

He strained to listen to the sounds around him. The medication in his veins fogged his consciousness and tried to force him into sleep... yet he could not help the feeling that this conversation was important. _If I can only... stay... awake..._

Madeline hesitated. "I would... you know I would. But... my son..."

Erik perked up again and his ears tingled. His mother referred to him as many things, but never that. Rarely did she speak of him without vitriol... _never _used the word 'son'.

"Erik will be fine," he doctor assured her. "It was a flesh wound. I know all the blood is alarming, but-"

"That is not what I mean, and you know it," she answered, impatiently.

The man cleared his throat. "I know of a place. An institution. They will take him, I am sure. Madeline, my darling, trust me. This life was not meant for you... it is draining you dry. Come with me, and we will start afresh together. And Erik... Erik will be safe. He will get the help he needs. You know he is unwell... and not just physically. They will take care of him, there. He _needs_ this, as do you."

Erik began to panic. _Institution. Sending me away. NO! Must... move... escape... PLEASE! _He struggled briefly with all the strength his small body could muster. He felt a soft, trembling hand brush his arm. "Mother," he moaned, but it came out as a garbled mess.

The careful touch was removed and replaced with a syringe in his mouth, forcing more of the foul-tasting elixir into his throat. That was the last thing he remembered feeling.

The last thing he _heard, _though, before succumbing to unconsciousness was his mother's resigned voice as she uttered the words, "Fine... I accept."

-0-0-0-0-

_**Years later... Winter 1864**_

It was raining horribly. The hospital was still miles away and her father was running out of time. In the back of her mind, Christine knew that this would be a possibility—that he might not survive the trip—but she had refused to entertain the thought. He _had _to live. Simply _had _to.

But now... now the chances were looking bleak, indeed.

"No no no no, Papa! You mustn't sleep. Stay awake for me, Papa, just a little longer." The man was fading, leaning more heavily on Christine with every step.

Their wagon had broken an axle three days ago, and the man Christine had hired to repair it had run away with their money. She'd berated herself for hours. _How could I be so foolish? Papa would never have let something like this happen. _ Her father, Gustave, had _always _taken care of her. Once, she had declared herself very grown up and responsible... yet now she never felt so unprepared, so inept.

But never so determined, either.

She sold most of her belongings—including the remains of the broken wagon—for food and some medicine to ease her father's discomfort, then helped the old man onto the horse's back and continued forth.

But last night it had begun to rain, and they had traded the horse for a hot meal and a roof over their heads for the night.

Perhaps they might have stayed there for a time. Christine could have offered to work—cook or clean in exchange for a few more days' lodging—but in the night her father took a turn for the worse.

They were out of money, out of time. '_Out of luck,' _the gruff innkeeper had said.

His wife, though... well, while she didn't offer them _help, _exactly, she did offer_ encouragement _in that she believed the hospital was not terribly far and could be reached in a day's journey on foot.

Christine clung to that shred of hope like a canteen of water in the desert.

However, well-meaning as the woman had been, that hope had been misplaced. Not only was the hospital farther away than she'd estimated, but obviously when she'd said "a day's journey" she'd been accounting for two healthy adults, not a young woman with a dying father draped across her shoulder with a staggering weight.

"Just a little longer," she assured her father, not believing a word of it.

Had he been feeling better, he would have indulged her in the fantasy. Made jokes about how he felt fine and what adventures they would have in the future. Now he only mumbled incoherently. _But at least he is conscious. There is still hope._

For the first time Christine began to wonder just how many of her hopes were nothing more than fantasy. Her father had taken great care to shelter her… he never let her see the horrors of life... made sure her childish dreams were not crushed by adulthood.

And if she lost him...

If _this _was reality, she was not sure she wanted to live it.

A tree limb, dislodged by the weather, fell into the road and she tripped, landing into the mud with her father groaning beside her.

Until now, she had been strong. She had kept her tears to herself in the quiet of her room, and been all smiles and denial when she tended her father.

But now...

She cried. She cried as she prayed for rescue, cried as she struggled to stand or call for help, even cried when she saw a lantern in the distance... because it seemed _too _far, _too _impossible.

-0-0-0-0-

The twins were used to going out at night. It was just easier to avoid the stares, that way. And when people did see the hulking men traversing the streets after dark, they tended not to ask questions.

Let them make whatever assumptions they liked, Jean-Pierre wasn't going to correct them. Neither would Jacques, for that matter, because he couldn't. He had no tongue.

Still, there were times when leaving at unconventional hours was a nuisance.

Like today, when all they wanted to do was go down to the pub and unwind a bit, and the blasted weather made it a near deadly endeavor.

Sure, they'd _left _easily enough, but returning half-baked had been a bad idea. The rain had swept away most of their familiar road-marks. At least Jacques hadn't been so far gone as to forget the lantern... they'd be in real trouble, then.

So, they'd return. Sooner or later. They'd be wet, cold, and drunk... but they'd return.

And Rose was going to be _furious_.

"We better hurry home, eh brother?" Jean-Pierre said. "Rose'll have our hides, for sure." Jacque didn't appear to be listening, though; his eyes were focused on some unknown point along the road. Annoyed, he elbowed him in the side. "Jacque! Did you go deaf as well as dumb?" His brother, though, just smacked him and shushed him with a hand gesture.

Jean-Pierre squinted and tried to see where his brother was pointing. There did appear to be something there. "What is it?" he wondered.

Through the sound of the rain, they barely—_just barely_—made out the cry of a female voice.

-0-0-0-0-

Perhaps, had she been willing to leave her father, Christine might have been able to save herself. She was healthy, strong enough to walk on or at least seek out some shelter until the storm passed... but not if she was dragging the lifeless body of her father.

_No, not lifeless... not lifeless. _It was true, the man lived yet, if only barely. She knew it, not only by instinct, but by the fact that she could feel his unnaturally heated skin through her clothes and shawl.

She couldn't abandon him... but she couldn't go on, either. And so she sat beside the road and waited for death to overtake them both.

The bobbing lantern still hovered in the distance and, in fact, had come near enough that she could barely make out the silhouettes of the two large figures following it.

"Help us!" she cried out, one last time. Then she shut her eyes.

-0-0-0-0-

On the verge of sleep, Christine was startled by a light slapping on her cheek.

"You there! Girl! You awake?"

She opened her eyes to two cloaked men, carrying a lantern between them. Something about them struck her as odd, but she couldn't place it. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.

One of them grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Christine started, suddenly frightened, and was just about to scream when the other man put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Easy there, love. Nobody's gonna hurt you. We're only trying to help. You're in quite a state... for a minute there we thought you were dead!"

"Dead," she whispered, in horror. "Please! You must help me! My father, I think he may be dying." She gestured to the old man at her feet, only to see that the other man—the one who helped her stand—was already kneeling beside him, examining for a sign of life. He looked up and nodded, but the look on his face was not hopeful.

"Jacques says he hasn't got long," the other explained, despite the fact that his companion had not, actually, said anything at all. "I doubt he'll make it to a hospital." Christine sobbed into her hands and would have sunk back to the ground, had a strong hand not been holding her upright.

"Ah... come on..." he whined awkwardly. "Don't cry... don't... ugh... please don't cry."

In the back of her mind, Christine found herself feeling a _little _bad for this man—she knew that some men were terribly uncomfortable with crying women, and he clearly was trying to help her—but she could not manage to restrain herself. The more she tried to stifle her weeping, the more her body shook with tears.

He glanced away, instead watching the quiet man maneuvering Gustave into a sitting position.

"Look..." he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I... I know of someone who can help your father."

The quiet man—Jacques—jerked his head up and gave him a sharp look.

"You do?" Christine cried. "Take me to him!"

Jacques gave a shake of his head, to which the other replied with a shrug. "What else are we to do? We cannot leave them here."

"Please..." she entreated. "Please help us. What must I do to convince you? You are our last hope."

The men looked at each other one last time as Christine held her breath. "Come on, then," he said, helping his companion to lift Gustave off the ground. "At least we can get them out of the rain."

Christine was just about to gush in gratitude when the hood fell off one of men's cloak. She gasped. The skin on his face was puckered and scarred, his earlobes completely missing, and in the flickering light of the lantern, she could see that, from his forehead, protruded a crown of razor sharp spikes.

The man sneered at her. "Are you coming? Or would you prefer to gawk some more?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. Should she go with these men? They could be taking her anywhere? It was wrong to judge, she knew, but how could such a face belong to an honest man? Spikes! Perhaps she had been mistaken to be so trusting. Had she been alone, perhaps she might have taken her chances on the road... but her Papa seemed to have run out of options.

She would have to risk it. If, indeed, a man lived who could save her father's life, it was worth any danger to herself.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me."

-0-0-0-0-

It was only a few minutes to their destination, even at their slow, halting pace. Christine might have been sheepish about having given up so easily, had it not been for the fact that the building was virtually invisible if you weren't looking directly at it. Ivy crawled over the bricks and hid the walls from prying eyes, the outer structure seemed to be in quite a state of disrepair. Christine noticed the remains of some sort of sign placard, but the text was obscured by moss. _Not a house, then_, she thought. _Some sort of hospital? No, that does not sound right... the hospital is miles up the road._ Whatever it was, it was definitely not meant to be discovered by anyone who didn't already know where to find it.

It was only when one of the men nudged her that she realized she had been staring. She murmured some apology and followed them through the gates.

The entrance to the main building was rusty and appeared ready to fall apart; even with the key, the brothers still had to muscle it open.

"You best wait here," one man said, while the other gently lowered Gustave to the ground. "We are not accustomed to visitors, and the Master does not like surprises."

Christine knelt beside Gustave, whispering encouraging platitudes to him as they waited. She hated the fact that their fate was being decided—at that moment, her father's life literally depended on whether or not the person on the other side of that door granted them entrance. What if those odd men said the wrong thing and she was denied as a result? If only she could make the appeal herself!

But, no, she could only wait and trust that these strangers would not leave them to die on their doorstep.

Perhaps it was the rain, but the seconds rolled by like hours.

Eventually, the door hinges complained again and a soft light shone from the hall within.

A low, female voice called out to them. "Enter, child, come in from the rain." Christine had, perhaps, never been so grateful to hear a voice in her life. The _hope_ it gave her renewed her energy and she found the strength to pull her father inside.

They were greeted at the door by an old woman. '_She's lovely!' _was Christine's first thought. And she was. Her hair, though completely white, was impeccably neat and hung down nearly to her hips. It had been braided for sleep, obviously, and Christine realized with some embarrassment that they must have dragged the poor woman from her bedchambers.

However, she did not appear rumpled or unaware in any way. In fact she was the picture of elegance, delicate without being frail. Christine vaguely wondered what she was like during the day, when she was fully composed.

But her eyes were her most astounding feature. Even in the half-shadows, they were bright and shining blue. Christine saw how they caught the light from the fire and reflected it back like cut-gemstones.

"Please," Christine began, "My father is very ill. Can you help us?"

The old woman shook her head. "I cannot. But there is, perhaps, one who can. Erik is the master here. If your father can be saved, it is Erik who can save him. He is often busy, though, I warn you. Jean-Pierre is speaking with him on your behalf."

Christine hung on the woman's every word, wringing every drop of optimism she could.

Soon, Jean-Pierre and his brother returned, towing a wheeled examination table behind them.

"He wants to see him," he said, emotionlessly. The two hefted Gustave onto the table. Christine gushed grateful words and took hold of her father's hand. "Alone," the man amended.

She was just about to protest when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. "Follow me, child. You would only be a hindrance, and Erik does not abide distractions."

Christine was dismayed, but nevertheless, released her grip on Gustave. The old woman's hand settled on her elbow.

Something about the old woman seemed comforting to Christine, like a kindly grandmother she could confide in without reprimand. "I really would feel more comfortable if I saw where they were taking my father. Those men... truthfully, I am not sure I trust them."

As she spoke, the woman guided her down the hall gently, but purposefully. "Why not, dear?" she asked, kindly. "Did they not bring you out of the rain?"

"Yes, but..."

"And did they not help you when you could have been left to rot in the street?"

"Yes..."

"Then what on earth has given you reason to suspect them when they have been nothing but kind?"

Christine swallowed, feeling somewhat like a chastened child, but continued nonetheless. "It is true. But... have you not seen them? I have never seen honest men who looked so..." She trailed off, not knowing what to say and feeling so terribly improper. Surely the woman knew what she was referring to.

When Christine did not finish her sentence, the woman stopped and turned to her. What Christine saw, then, in the light of the hall, caused her blood to run cold.

Those eyes... those bright shining eyes she had just taken note of? She _had no eyes_. The eyes that shone like gemstones... _were _gemstones. Someone had taken two large sapphires and stitched them into the sockets where her eyes should have gone.

The woman made no mention of Christine's sharp intake of breath. And her staring—if even noticed—was similarly dismissed.

"What is your name, dear?"

"Uh... Christine, madame."

"Pleased to meet you, Christine. My name is Rose."

Just like that, Rose had managed to dismiss Christine's protests just as if they had never been uttered. No chastisement, no retort... just erased them from history. She continued to lead Christine along the halls, occasionally making remarks about the architecture or this-or-that historical reference.

_For Papa_, Christine chanted in her head as she forced herself to take each forward step. _They can save him. _

Eventually they stopped at a beautifully furnished parlor. Rose smiled politely and bid Christine to take a seat.

She started to protest. "But my fa—"

"Is being seen to."

"But why can I not—"

"Erik's rules, not mine, dear. When he is ready, someone will come find you. In the meanwhile, I shall have some dry clothes brought to you."

Christine sat down gingerly, trying not to ruin the furniture with her muddy dress. "Thank you, madame."

Rose was just about to leave when she hesitated at the door. She seemed to be pondering something...

"My dear, Christine... please do make yourself comfortable. But it would be best if you remained in this room."

A loud cackle emanated from down the hall, punctuating her request.

Alarmed, Christine asked, "What was _that_?"

When Rose turned back to Christine, all warmth and politeness had drained from her countenance and cold-steel stood in its place. Those gemstone eyes, once simply disturbing, had become outright _dangerous. _ "Do not leave this room," she reiterated, and quickly vanished into the hall.

For several long moments, Christine stared slack-jawed at the door. She felt simultaneously horrified and foolish. Something unsettled her about these people. Even the servants, the awkward young man and mousy girl who delivered a privacy screen and tidy bundle of clothing... even they unnerved her. The way they refused to meet her eyes and answered her polite greetings with barely a nod.

It just didn't _feel _right. The air was too cold, the room too silent.

_No_, Christine shook her head. It was in her mind. Her dress was soaked, and she _was _cold. And it was nighttime, likely most of the household was asleep.

She should probably stay put, as she was told. But she couldn't shake the restless confusion of a stalked animal.

She could go in search of her father and that mysterious healer attending him. But the corridors all looked so similar, she supposed she might get lost. And that chilling noise she'd heard earlier did not do much for her confidence.

So, she stayed, head high and ears alert for even the slightest of noises.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine had to admit, being warm and dry helped her disposition a great deal. The dress she'd been given was simple, and worn, but it was clean and comfortable. Much more than she had a right to expect, having essentially been dropped on their doorstep in the middle of the night in a shivering heap.

They really had been very kind, she recognized. They hadn't deserved her unkind thoughts earlier. She prayed in embarrassment that the two men who brought her would never hear the words she had uttered to Rose only an hour ago.

_An hour? _Is that all it had been? It felt like it had been ages. Perhaps the clock was broken? Christine's chest began to pain her, and she sensed an attack of panic. She didn't want to be alone here. She wanted her father. It had been so long... could he be dead? No, surely they would have come to tell her. But what if he was still waiting? What if this Erik fellow had refused to see him? What if they'd forgotten?

_He could be dead. He could be dead right now and I wouldn't even know it. I am so foolish! I should never have left his side! I should have insisted... should be with him _now_! _

The pointed clearing of a voice pierced through her labored breathing and Christine's head popped up to see a young man in the doorway.

"I am supposed to fetch you. If you don't mind. Rose wishes to speak with you."

With a nervous nod, Christine followed the boy back out into the front entrance hall where Rose was waiting to greet them. It alarmed her... made her feel as if they were being cast out. _Is he dead? Can he be saved?_ The woman's expression was unreadable, though to be fair, Christine's eyes had _quickly_ averted from Rose's lidless, gemstone gaze. She looked too much like a living, human doll for Christine's comfort and she did not want to risk saying or doing something to further offend the woman. _For Papa... for Papa..._

"Christine?" called a crackled voice.

Gustave was half-sitting, half-reclining on a sofa by the fire. Despite being conscious and covered in blankets, he appeared even closer to death than before. Christine ran to him, knelt by his side, and took his hand. It was clammy and damp, but the fever seemed to have abated somewhat.

Briefly she glanced at Rose, standing impassively beside them, before returning to her father. "So? Can he help him?" She asked, desperation evident in her voice.

"He can." Rose stated, flatly.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much... you have no idea-"

"For a price."

The demand made her heart drop. "We... we do not have much money."

"Erik requires no money."

"Then what?"

"A favor. Payment that he will collect at a future time... of which you may not refuse."

"Do not do this," her father rasped. "I have seen the devil. I fear he wants your soul." Christine shuddered, but hushed her distraught father. He had been delirious for weeks, sinking in and out of hallucinations as his fever rose and waned.

Christine pleaded... begged the woman to show mercy or see reason. "But what does he require? How can I know if I can pay... if I do not know what it is?"

The woman's brow furrowed. "I am afraid we cannot help you," she said abruptly and turned on her heel. "Our business is concluded, here." Christine followed her to the inner door to the front parlor, and Rose very nearly shut it in her face.

She shoved her foot in the door and forced it open. She took the old woman's hand and clutched it. "Please! I will do anything! Anything to save my father!"

Her jeweled eyes gleamed in the firelight and she grinned... a smile that was more feral than friendly. "Then you accept the terms?"

"Fine... I accept."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Winter - 1864**_

Gustave was resting peacefully. His fever had broken hours ago and had not spiked again since. Christine was relieved... exhausted physically but too wound up to sleep, so she sat by his side and held his hand. For hours, she watched him, whispering prayers of thanksgiving to God for sparing his life. On occasion, he would grow restless and she would sing to him lullabies from their homeland.

So engrossed was she in watching and singing that she failed to notice the silent creature watching _her._

Briefly she caught a flash of white in the corner of her vision. With a gasp, she turned around, only to find that the figure was gone. Had it vanished into one of the growing shadows... or had she imagined it?

"Is... is somebody here?" she asked, carefully. For a moment, there was nothing. Then she heard an audible breath and a man stepped from the darkness, bold and regal, as if he had not just been hiding in a corner seconds before. In fact, suddenly _she _was the one who felt abashed. As if _she _had somehow intruded upon _him_. She could find no adequate reason why that could be, yet the feeling was there just the same.

When she had gathered the boldness to look, the first thing that she noticed about the man was that he was impossibly tall—or perhaps that was mere perception, as she was currently feeling so very small—and skeletally thin. Her father was thin because his illness had so weakened him... but _this _man appeared in no way frail. It seemed to defy nature, she thought, but she had no doubt that he could snap her in two if he so desired.

However her assessment of his stature came to an abrupt halt the instant her gaze reached the man's face. Or... lack thereof. All she saw was a bone-white mask and, behind it, two glowing eyes. Golden, like a cat's. _Or a demon_, her mind supplied in a voice that sounded suspiciously like her father's.

How long had he been here? What did he want? Her brain spun all possible lines of questioning before settling on: "Pardon me... who are you?"

"You love this man," the man said with an odd inflection that made Christine wonder if he was making a statement or asking a question. She nodded in affirmation and he tilted his head quizzically.

"Why?" he asked... or, rather, demanded.

"He is my father," Christine answered.

Another jerky motion and his eyes narrowed slightly. His expressions puzzled Christine. She could not see his face and his tone of voice was proving difficult to read.

His fingers fidgeted slightly as he asked—or accused, "Is that relevant?"

Impossible to decipher. Was he angry? Inquisitive? It was unnerving and Christine was not entirely sure how to respond.

In the end, she chose simple honesty. "Of course it is. We are family... he is everything to me. My Papa is all I have."

"You love him because of... lack of alternative?"

Flustered, she attempted an answer. "No. No... nothing like that. That... makes no sense..."

"Then _why_?"

_Not angry, _she decided. He sounded sincere enough, which Christine found strange. It was as if he was trying to grasp a concept that truly baffled him. _He's my father! How can my love for him be so obscure an idea?_

"It is... it is..." she floundered for an explanation, but none came forth.

"Is that why you sing?" he asked. Then he elaborated, "Because you love him."

"Well... no... I mean... not exactly..." She couldn't answer _why _she sang, per se. Her father was asleep... if she was perfectly honest with herself, he probably wasn't hearing her at all. She sang because... it made her feel better, like she was somehow being more useful... and she liked to sing and, yes, because her father loved her voice and she loved him. And some other reason that she just couldn't manage to articulate.

She stumbled through her explanation, surprised that he seemed perfectly pleased with her answer. "Then you will sing for me," he said, as if the matter was settled, and strode out of the room. When he reached the door and realized that Christine had yet to stand up, he turned to her and clarified, "Now," and held open the door for her.

"Oh, sir... I... I couldn't. I would be too embarrassed. I have never sung for anyone else, before."

He blinked—once, twice—not having expected any sort of refusal. "You will do this," he stated. Not asking, not threatening, nor intimidating... nothing like that. He wasn't _telling_ her to do anything... rather, just _informing_ her that it would be done.

It was bizarre. It was unsettling... and, honestly, a little offensive. But it was intriguing. Christine found herself drawn to the strange man who carried himself like royalty but could not comprehend very basic human emotions. Curiosity overcame both pride and nerves, and she followed. And then she sang.

Just as he said she would.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Erik led the timid girl out of the guest quarters and down several flights of stairs to his own rooms. She was a fascinating little thing and he wanted to take her to his workshop and examine her like all his other fascinating little things.

_His_, you see, because he had already come to think of her as such. Erik briefly pondered that thought-the reason behind such sudden possessiveness-and quickly cast it aside as irrelevant. If he wanted her, that was his own prerogative; his motives were his own, even if these ones were impulsive and abstract. She was here now, and he was eager to study her—like a rock or a butterfly.

His workshop was an eccentric space, something of an all-purpose room that housed his many interests. Along the edge ran a long table littered with pens, tools, and a multitude of interesting gadgets in various stages of completion.

The left corner, which was darker than the others, contained the simple coffin that Erik liked to sleep in. Morbid, by the world's standards, but it was comfortable enough and the privacy was nice… and, really, his sleeping arrangements were hardly anyone else's business. Christine gasped, horrified, and Erik had to suppress an eye-roll as he pointedly guided her around to the opposite space where he kept his collection of musical instruments.

He brought Christine to stand beside an impeccably polished concert piano and began by playing some simple scales, urging her to sing along. When he was satisfied that they were both sufficiently warmed-up, he said, "Now, sing something."

"I… I…" the young woman stuttered, "What shall I sing?"

Erik closed his eyes briefly, blissfully remembering the simple Swedish melody he'd heard upstairs. His hands wandered over the keyboard, inventing a suitable introduction. He waited to see a spark of recognition in her eyes and then nodded for her to begin.

And she sang. And it was awful. The pitch was fine, the notes exact, her pronunciation led Erik to believe she was native to the area… but the tone was… _dead_. Emotionless. The _life _that he had savored when he first heard her was somehow snuffed out. It startled Erik and left him feeling unsettled for reasons he could not explain. _Something that _should_ be alive but _sounds_ dead when voiced by a _living_ woman_. _The disparity offends the senses._

"No. This is… wrong. All wrong. Sing differently… sing better." The girl blinked at him owlishly. He tilted his head… _was she broken_? Had something happened in the last hour to destroy her voice? Or perhaps the sounds he had heard above were concocted by his own imagination. He made an impatient gesture with his hands. "I wish for you to sing… as you did before. Sing to me as you sang to the old man."

Again the girl began to sing, and again Erik shuddered at the sound. "NO!" he exclaimed, louder than strictly necessary.

"Forgive me! I did what you said. I told you! I told you I had never performed before. I… I do not know what you _want_!"

He noticed her shaking. "Why do you tremble?" he asked. She merely shook her head in response, but a change in her breathing did not escape his notice. "I have… frightened you, no?" She shook her head again, but the response was too quick to be convincing. Erik let out an exasperated sigh. "I have not harmed you, nor have I spoken cruelly. I have healed your father, given you respite from the storm. Why do you tremble before me when I have shown you nothing but kindness?"

Christine refused to look up at him. She was blinking rapidly and swallowing. _Trying not to cry_, his mind supplied. He could respect that, he supposed. Erik knew enough about hiding weakness—about the shame of crying in front of another—and decided to take pity on the girl. He stepped back, allowing her at least an illusion of privacy as she composed herself. Concealed in shadow, he observed her.

For the first time, it occurred to him what a lovely young woman she was. Bashful, but not in the mousy, groveling way that he had come to associate with the girls under his employ or the subservient beauties he'd run across in the East. She was plainly dressed and slightly disheveled, but there was a tenderness that she wore about her like a cloak which appealed to him more than any physical perfection.

It was when he began to note how prettily she blushed that he slammed down on this line of thinking. He was human, despite arguments to the contrary, and was not immune to the type of thoughts that plagued young men.

Clearly his instincts had overwhelmed his clarity of hearing; some level of his consciousness wanted to imagine an angel's voice to pair with that angel's features.

The horror at that stray thought hit him suddenly and violently. He'd heard this attitude before and _nothing _good ever came from it.

Disgusted, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "You may go now. You are of no use to me."

The girl frowned, but said nothing as he led her up through his laboratories and back to the room where her father resided. Confused as she seemed, though, her relief was palpable. By the time they'd returned, much of her nervousness had visibly abated. Satisfied she was no worse for wear, he nodded curtly and excused himself.

He was about to take his leave… but something inarticulate came over him when he saw the way her eyes softened as she saw the old man again. Something that made his fists clench, a feeling he almost attributed to envy or possessiveness… yet… somehow… _different_.

It disturbed him greatly, as did the incomprehensible rage that threatened at the idea that she would sing so sweetly again once he departed. _What is _happening_ to me?_

Erik ground his teeth and forced himself from the room. The girl would not be leaving soon; her father would likely convalesce for several more days. He had time to look in on her, time to consider.

Perhaps he was not ready to abandon her… just yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**1840 **

Little Erik sat in the corner of his cell, bored out of his mind. The sparse furniture—right down to his rickety metal cot—had been removed, punishment for his attempt to dismantle pieces of it a few days ago. He hadn't meant any harm, not _truly_, but it had been something to do and he did _so hate _to be idle.

That was the worst part of all, Erik decided, the boredom. Vaguely he registered that the room was too cold, but temperature never really affected him as it did others, and really, his mother's poorly insulated attic hadn't been much better. Likewise, the food he was offered was bland and insufficient... but he had survived on worse.

Logically, he supposed, life wasn't all that bad. He was clothed and relatively clean, the staff left him well enough alone and, apart from that terrifying first inspection, no one had attempted to take his mask from him.

And yet... he still couldn't help but miss the tension of his mother's house. At least there he had something to _do_. There were books and tools and sketchpads. There was music to play and insects to catch and jittery spinsters to torment. Or he could resort to the tried-and-true pastime of childhood and pick a fight with his mother, just to force her attention on him.

He banged his head once on the wall and briefly offered a prayer of repentance for all the times he had thought himself bored in the past.

* * *

**1864 **

Her father's health did seem to be improving, Christine realized gratefully. His chest still rattled and he was much too pale, but his moments of wakefulness and lucidity were longer and more frequent. She'd spoken to him at least twice now and, while hoarse and groggy, he still managed to recognize her name and answer some basic questions before drifting off to sleep again. It was remarkably quick progress when one considered that he'd been at Death's door that very morning. Still, she longed for the time when she'd express her deepest thanks to her hosts and take her father home again. Hopefully they would not be required to stay here long.

_Home_…

It suddenly occurred to Christine just how _far away _their true home was… and the fact that, even if her father was miraculously healed and strong at that very moment, they'd still have no money, no food… _nothing _that would provide for a journey of any length. Another wave of anxiety clutched at her chest and settled like ice in her veins. Air forced from her lungs and tears threatened to spill at any moment. She wasn't responsible enough… wasn't _strong _enough for this.

Christine gripped onto her father with the desperation of a child. "What shall I do, Papa?" she whispered. "What will become of us?"

Just then, Erik strode briskly into the room. He circled around Gustave's bed, not sparing a glance at the girl trembling over him.

Feeling awkward, Christine broke the silence. "He is… he is feeling better, I think."

Erik continued to ignore her, instead tinkering with some instruments at the head of the bed. With the mask in place, his expression was nearly unreadable, but Christine did notice how his glowing eyes narrowed into slits and he tilted his head slightly downward. He took up Gustave's free hand and pressed the wrist with his fingertips before letting it drop back to the bed again.

"You will leave now." Erik stated abruptly. Christine blinked dumbly at his blunt order and clutched tighter to Gustave's arm, preparing to make some sort of stand. With a gesture of irritation, he elaborated, "I will be administering his treatment; privacy is required. Leave now. Rose will see you to a room and you may return in the morning."

Christine shuddered lightly, not terribly excited to see the strange eyeless woman again. Truly, she also wasn't keen on the idea of leaving her father alone with this _him _either, but…

She felt a soft touch on her elbow. "Come along now, dear," said Rose, startling her. _When did she come in?_ "You don't want to stay in this stuffy old place anyway, do you? We've a nice comfortable bed all made up for you. You want to be rested when your father wakes up."

Suddenly her arm was thrown back; Gustave had awoken and shoved her away from him violently. "Run, Christine!" he cried, eyes glassy. "Leave and never return! It is too late for me… I have seen the devil's eyes… heard Lucifer's voice!… you mustn't… you must…"

He weakly began to sit up, only to be shoved back with Erik's hand firmly on his chest. The masked man snapped at her, "Mademoiselle Daae, you will leave or _I _will. I am a busy man; I haven't the time for female hysterics. Your father's death will be on your own head."

Rose just tutted and Christine had the distinct feeling she would be rolling her eyes if she could. "Such dramatics! All of you, _really_…" she exclaimed, ushering Christine out like a mother hen. "Off we go, then! Erik has work to do and we'd only be in the way."

"I… I…" Christine stuttered, but before she knew it, she was out in the hall and the door had been slammed and locked behind her back. With a defeated sigh, she allowed herself to be led away. Her father _was _getting better, and she did not want to be a hindrance to whatever was healing him. Perhaps she was simply overtired; she tried to mentally calculate how long it had been since she'd slept, but came up blank every time. She knew she wasn't thinking properly.

"Here we go, dear," Rose said kindly, leading her into a cozy little bedroom. She handed her a folded nightgown—worn, but serviceable, just like the dress—and towel. As Christine laid the items out on the bed, Rose informed her, "Someone will come in the morning to escort you to breakfast. There is a washroom behind the door on the left. I suggest you don't try to go exploring on your own, though." The warning was gentle but firm, as it had been when she'd first arrived. Finding herself rather disturbed by this she turned, intending to ask the reason… only to see that she'd already slipped out of the room. She tested the doorknob, unsurprised to find it locked.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Erik thoroughly scrubbed his hands and arms in the washbowl. He so hated touching human skin… _but, needs must_, his mind sighed. The… _unwell person_… laid comfortably back in his bed, his breathing much improved and pulse back up to an acceptable level. At least he had only struggled for a few minutes. If a body laid still enough, he could usually convince himself he was working on a cadaver or some more abstract experiment.

It hadn't been his natural inclination to assist the human when he first arrived on their doorstep… but Rose had asked it of him and, for reasons he could not define, he always had difficulty refusing her.

And, if forced, he would have to admit that he had nothing better to do. Though dawn had still been many hours away, Erik had already given up on sleep. And, while his fingers wandered aimlessly over the piano, he hadn't the inspiration to put any notes to paper. The same happened when he opened his sketchbook. He'd half-heartedly penned some messages to various business associates across Europe… but his overall attempt at productivity had been pathetic.

So he'd grumbled a bit, but eventually acquiesced to see the patient. It was better than having _nothing _to do.

And then he saw the gentle young girl who wept over the useless man and sang so sweetly to him… and was strangely fascinated. She cradled him like a priceless treasure rather than a dog that should be put down.

It was enthralling. It made him want… something. Something from her, something about her… he truly could not say. But, oh how he _wanted_. He could not stop watching her, even when he knew it made her uncomfortable. The compulsion was too strong.

He did find himself less reluctant to save the old man's life, though. So, that was something. He'd forced an unspoken stipulation upon the girl in regards to payment for the father's care. And the longer he kept her there, the longer he had to decide what it is he desired.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Christine lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling. The room wasn't uncomfortable… just stark. Overall, she supposed everything was rather nice… there just wasn't much to look at. No windows, no colors on the walls; no one had put much thought into what it looked like. Briefly, she wondered if Rose designed it.

It was the oddest observation to make, she realized. Never before had she given so much as a thought to room décor. But the absence of it had attracted her attention. _I suppose there are some things one never notices until they're gone_, she mused.

Not that any of that mattered. It wasn't as if she was on holiday. And, had they made it to the _actual _hospital, she mightn't have had a place to sleep at all! Hospitals weren't meant for healthy people, after all, and her father was the reason she'd sought help. _And_, she wondered upon further reflection, _would they have accepted her father at all, since they hadn't the ability to pay? Then again, we _are_ still indebted to pay even here, aren't we? Even if money is not what _he _requires. I wonder what…_

She pondered these things as she dozed, never really committing either to sleep or serious thought. Somehow the wandering of her mind and the blankness of her surroundings lulled her into a sort of mental numbness that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"_Christine…_" a gentle voice called. It was a nice voice, she decided, warm and masculine. Christine smiled lazily, wondering when she had finally slipped into dreaming.

"I am here," she sighed, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. There was something tugging in the back of her mind, a vague feeling of familiarity. She could not place it… but she didn't really try to. The voice hummed softly and she smiled again, slowly rising from the bed.

"You have a lovely voice. May I see you?"

"You cannot," the voice responded sadly, "for I am so very unhappy!"

Christine frowned, concerned. "Whatever for?"

"I heard a young lady singing today, and I fear I shall never hear her again!"

"Perhaps_ I_ may sing for you," she suggested. The poor voice sounded so forlorn. It seemed only right that she offer to help.

"Would you? Would you, dear girl? Yes, I believe I should like that very much."

Christine nodded and closed her eyes. She sang the sweetest song she could think of—a song her mother sang to her when she was a very young child and needed soothing. She poured all her heart's compassion into the song, hoping she could somehow console her despondent companion.

She finished on a soft note and then waited in silence for the voice to respond. When there was no answer, she shifted nervously. Had her new friend disappeared?

At last, she heard the voice sigh. He breathed her name once again… though the sound was slightly more strangled than before. Unsure of how to accept such a response, she remained silent. The voice took a ragged breath, as if to compose himself.

"That was… exquisite, Christine."

She grinned, inexplicably happy to have pleased him so. "Have I made you happy?"

"You have made me very happy, indeed."

"Then… may I see you now?"

There was another pause and she held her breath, waiting for an answer. She wondered what manifestation her imagination would make of her new friend. If her mind could conjure such a wondrous voice, surely it would supply an equally glorious form to accompany it.

"Alas, no! I must confess, dear girl, that I have deceived you! You cannot see me for my face was not meant to be looked upon by mortal eyes."

Christine was very disappointed, but not altogether surprised. Dreams could be finicky things. Suddenly something occurred to her. "Why… then you must be an angel!" she exclaimed.

"I suppose I have been called that by some."

With a giggle, she curtsied. "Well then, Angel, I am very pleased to meet you. I am Christine."

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes you are. _My Christine_."

She laughed again, albeit rather awkwardly this time, and then yawned. _Odd_, she thought, _that one can feel tired while asleep!_

"Lie back down," the voice commanded, "Return to sleep, for the hour is late. But… Christine… I wish for you to sing for me again. Tomorrow."

"As you wish, Angel," she answered, eyes beginning to droop.

"_Christine…" _the voice said as the familiar dark haze of sleep began to overtake her. "_I wish for you to sing for me always._"

"As you wish, Angel," was her murmured reply.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The next morning, Christine awoke refreshed and still smiling from the most wonderful dream she'd ever had.

Three floors below, an angel hunched over his worktable, scribbling away with a fervency he hadn't felt in _years_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Winter 1840**

Erik awoke one night to some great commotion. Screaming—feminine and nearly constant, as if the one responsible paused only to breathe before carrying on again. Then there were quick footsteps headed down the hall. The window was too high to reach so he leaned over the tiny keyhole to try to see what was going on. Nurses—or guards, he had trouble telling the difference—rushed past, murmuring hurriedly as they tried to decide which room to burst into.

A man cleared his throat. "Room 5," he said and Erik recognized the voice belonging to the hospital director, Dr. Gagnier. There was a jingling of keys and the doctor added, "I believe Mlle. Mercier is currently occupying it."

The name didn't mean much to him, and he probably would have gone back to bed—fits of this nature were not uncommon in the asylum—but Erik's keen ears detected the doctor's sigh. "_My Rose,_" he'd whispered reverently.

Now _that _name, he did recognize. _Rose_. Erik's breath caught when he remembered the nice woman with the kind smile. She'd seemed… sane… when he'd seen her last. He'd cherished her soft spoken words of encouragement, wrapped them around his mind like a blanket to comfort him during those terrifying first weeks.

He pressed his ear to the door, listening carefully as the staff flooded into her cell.

"She's _real_, doctor! I swear it! I saw her… the ghost! You have to believe me, doctor, you _must_! I am not lying... I _saw her_!"

It deeply disturbed Erik to hear the woman so distressed. Had she always been delusional? Or had _this place _done it to her?

_What horrors await me here?_

-0-0-0-0-

**Winter 1864 **

It was Jean-Pierre who rapped on Christine's door the next morning just as she finished the fastenings on her dress. She hoped she hadn't made anybody late. The lights had come on of their own accord some time ago, but she didn't have any idea of what time it actually was beyond that. She had, perhaps, spent more time in front of the mirror than she normally would have… but there was a pretty blue hair-ribbon left on the table that she hadn't noticed the night before and, after months of barest necessities, the simple accessory seemed like a luxury. So, she allowed herself a few extra moments of girlish vanity. And it felt good. She felt good.

Yes, she worried for her father… but the crushing _hopelessness _of their situation had eased off her chest. There had been no real change in their circumstance, but she was warm and clean and rested. She'd slept deeply and had the sweetest of dreams. With her basic needs met, the world seemed a little less bleak. At least for _today_, everything would be fine… and that would be enough for right now. Thinking beyond that might spiral her out of control again, and she was too content to ruin her morning with such thoughts.

If they _were _late, Jean-Pierre didn't seem overly concerned about it. He didn't say much at all beyond a muttered morning greeting. From the bags under his eyes and his overall miserable countenance, Christine gathered that he was not an early riser by choice. Either that or he was still recovering of the indulgences he and his brother seemed to enjoy in their free time. She had not been _so_ far gone the other night that she hadn't noted the rather large bottles Jacques had clanking around in his pack.

She followed Jean-Pierre down the hall, walking together in companionable silence. "Let's go through the kitchen," he suggested. "It's quicker that way. Don't want to give Rose more reasons to be cross with me."

"Rose is…" Christine began, but Jean-Pierre silenced her with a sharp look. She shrunk back ever so slightly; the spikes on his forehead weren't _quite_ as intimidating as they had been that first night, but in the light she couldn't help but notice the fierce looking scars that decorated his jaw and cheekbones, some more recent than others.

"A kindhearted woman," he responded, finishing her sentence pointedly. "And more of a mother to me than my own."

"Of course," she murmured, chastened… _again_. She _was_ shamed by her own prejudices, truly. It was one thing to here tales of people with unfortunate conditions and sympathize with them—her father had resolutely banned her from the gypsy side-shows for that very reason, believing her too soft-hearted to understand—and yet… to actually _behold_ people so human and yet so… _not_… disturbed her on a visceral level she could not seem to control. Intellectually she was disappointed in herself, but she could still look forward to the day when she would return to her sheltered little world where such people did not exist.

Just before they turned the corner, Christine noticed an odd looking door. Not odd, in and of itself, she admitted, because a door was a door. But still it stood out in that it differed slightly from all the others, which all seemed perfectly uniform to her. It was red and slightly distressed, as if it had taken some abuse over the years and nobody had bothered to replace it.

"What is in there?" she asked, curiously.

Jean-Pierre shrugged, though his face took on a slightly haunted appearance. "It's _The Room._ We… ah… nobody goes in there anymore."

"Is it forbidden?" she wondered as images of Bluebeard and the horror-tales of her childhood sprang to mind. Perhaps it was a weakness of hers, the thrill of curiosity warring with the terror of being caught.

"That is a rather dramatic word, don't you think?" Jean-Pierre said with a snort. "I reckon you and Erik would get on rather well on that front." For a moment he laughed before growing serious again. "Nobody wants to go in there. It is not a happy place… though I don't suppose it is technically _forbidden_. To us, anyway. It's… not for outsiders. _He _probably wouldn't be all that pleased to find you wondering about in places you're not meant to be. And it's locked at any rate."

"But what is in there?"

"Nothing you'd care about, I'm sure. Old books and things. Old memories, mostly, but that's all I am going to say on the subject. Ah! Here we are! Follow me; the kitchens are right over here."

The kitchen was a larger place than she'd expected, for some reason. Perhaps because she had only seen a small handful of people, it hadn't occurred to her how large this facility must be. Several women bustled around, kneading dough and stirring massive pots of porridge. Beyond the occasional shy smile in Jean-Pierre's direction, they were largely ignored. It seemed that people 'just passing through' was not an unusual occurrence.

It confused Christine, to be honest. She and her father had performed for enough wealthy patrons to have a fair idea about class distinctions; servants and masters didn't make a habit of crossing each other's territories. When she asked Jean-Pierre about it, he seemed amused by her curiosity.

"They're not servants," he answered, with a shrug. "Not here, anyway; Erik wouldn't stand for it. Here, they're just… friends… and it's their turn to cook. It's a lucky thing, too, since Marie makes a heavenly _pain au chocolat _if you're nice to her." He paused then, suddenly looking a little green. "Maybe we should change the subject," he gulped nauseously, massaging his temples.

Before too long, they found themselves in the dining room and Christine was a bit chagrined that they were the last to arrive. The dining room was quite small compared to the kitchen, with a table that only sat seven or eight people. Certainly not enough diners to warrant the massive quantity of food she'd seen simmering. She chose to say nothing, though, opting to concentrate on the meal before her and half-heartedly listen to the amiable chatter of the other occupants.

After a few minutes, a jovial looking man pointed his fork at Jean-Pierre teasingly and exclaimed, "Look at you, man! You look like death warmed over! You got sloshed last night, didn't you?"

Jean-Pierre grunted and shoved away his plate of eggs with a look of disgust. "I had to, didn't I?" he asked. "Had to _something _to drown out the noise." He looked to his brother for confirmation; Jacques nodded sullenly while glaring into a cup of black coffee.

"I don't know," a woman answered, dreamily. "I thought it was rather nice. Like angels singing."

Christine's head snapped up and she listened to the conversation in earnest. _Angels? Could it be?_

"That's exactly what I mean," Jean-Pierre said in response. "_Too _nice, if you ask me. It isn't right. Nothing natural makes that kind of sound."

After a moment's pause, another man spoke, evidently putting voice to some secret everyone seemed to be thinking. "Do you suppose the ghost has returned?"

The rest of the meal was finished in silence.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Christine spent much of the day at her father's side. Gustave was able to sit for short periods of time and even managed a few sips of broth. When Erik first stopped in, Christine expected to be asked to leave, but the strange man said nothing. As he quickly went about recording vital signs and tinkering with curious looking machines, Christine began to feel extremely awkward.

Attempting to break up the silence, she commented, "We missed you at breakfast."

He paused and Christine was once again subjected to his penetrating stare. "Why?" he asked.

She stuttered, unsure of what to say. "I… ah… well… you were the only one not there and…"

"That is incorrect," he answered simply, elaborating no further.

He blinked at her, evidently waiting for some response. She could come up with nothing to say, though. If she had thought Erik's silence was uncomfortable, his conversation was more so.

When Erik realized that no answer was forthcoming, he turned back to his work. Once or twice, he glanced at the pretty young woman who seemed oblivious to his attention. When he could no longer think of a logical purpose to remain in her presence, he reluctantly gathered his notes.

Christine heard a _clink _as two small vials of liquid were placed on the nightstand by the bed. She looked up at Erik questioningly and he instructed, "You will give him these when he wakes. At eight o'clock this evening, you will come back down to my workshop. I wish for you to sing again. Do you remember the way?"

"I thought I was of no use to you," she said with a touch of bitterness. Her voice had been a source of pride for her; to be scorned so harshly had stung.

He waved impatiently. "What you thought is irrelevant. Today you shall sing."

"But… but…" Christine gestured to Gustave, lying on the bed. Surely she could not just abandon him.

Again, Erik was annoyed. "The subject sleeps much of the time. You have nothing better to do." She said nothing and his chest swelled with an unexpected sense of triumph. "May I take it, by your silence, that you have exhausted your legitimate objections?" Christine looked down but did not answer one way or the other.

"Very well. Then I shall see you at eight."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Late that night, Christine returned to her room. Performing for Erik had been… exhausting. He accompanied her on the piano, but it had been nothing like singing with her father. He acted as if he was some sort of _instructor_, and she, a lowly student. Most of the time, they didn't make it more than a few measures before he stopped her, snapping out some ill-tempered remark about posture, tempo, pitch. She believed that, in the two hours they'd spent together, she had not managed to sing a single song uninterrupted.

All in all, she hated it. And she had the distinct impression that he did as well. Why else would he constantly fix that predatory stare on her? She shuddered and tried to shake the lingering feeling of those golden eyes on her.

When she returned to her room, though, she smiled. There was a hot cup of tea waiting by her bedside. Without so much as a thought about where it came from, she took a long sip and settled into bed, hoping to dream of angels.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the delay! Here's an extra long chapter. Don't forget to review!**

-0-0-0-

**Winter 1864**

"Papa?"

"Yes, child?"

"What does Erik do when he sends me out of the room?"

Gustave's face turned red and he scowled at the mention of Erik's name. It was, she supposed, rather informal of her to refer to the masked man thus… but, then again, he really hadn't given her another name to use, and the monikers Gustave favored for him were far too disrespectful to repeat.

"I do not know what wizardry that creature performs on me… but I'm sure it is nothing your gentle soul need know about."

She shook her head at her father's irreverence. "Oh _Papa_," she sighed. "Surely it cannot be as bad as all that. You _are _getting better, after all, and I've never seen so much as a mark on you from cruel treatment!"

"That is precisely what I mean, dear girl!" he bared his arm to her. "Where is the evidence? The lines? The scars from the bloodletting… marks of the purging or ice baths or… _something_. Whatever this strange man has been doing, medicine has nothing to do with it."

"Surely he cannot be doing you harm! How can you believe such a thing? When I return you are always resting so peacefully."

"Because he _forces _sleep upon me! He gives me these… these witches' potions until I can no longer keep my eyes open. And then… then God only knows what he does then. _Really_, Christine," he insisted, almost scolding, "Why did you have to bring us here? Could we not have made it to a hospital?"

"No, Papa," she lamented, having often wondered the same thing herself. "We scarcely made it here as it was. I believe you would not have survived long enough to find the hospital."

Gustave huffed in annoyance, and then turned his head to muffle the hacking cough that followed. "Nevertheless, I should like to leave this place and see a true physician rather than this... this…"

"Erik!" Christine exclaimed.

"Yes, _Erik_," the old man spat before looking up and seeing the man himself, looming in the doorway. _Speak of the devil_, he thought darkly. The masked man simply looked at him, eyes flashing and head tilted as if challenging Gustave to speak. He raised himself up with as much dignity he could muster from the confines of his sickbed and addressed him. "I would like to leave this place now," he said firmly.

"And yet you will not," the demon replied, elaborating no further.

"Now, see here! I—"

"Get out, Mlle. Daae," Erik said, glancing at Christine, who sat dumbfounded between the two. "The subject is in need of treatment."

Gustave narrowed his eyes at the callous reference - _subject, indeed! Ha!_ - and Christine feared he might say something foolish in his anger. She put a hand on her father's arm to quiet him and, in a rare moment of boldness, she addressed Erik, "A word alone first… if you will, sir."

He paused in surprise, before responding, "Anything you wish," with a reverent tone that was bizarrely incongruous with their current setting.

As she followed him out of the room, she gave her father's hand a squeeze. "I will talk to him, Papa," she assured him. "I'll find a way to fix this for you."

-0-0-0-

Erik cringed as he plucked several fat leeches off of the sick man's body. It was a compromise he had reached with Christine after much discussion. Her father seemed to hold some strong beliefs about proper medicine. _And, yet, he came to my doorstep in the throes of _death_, _he thought, thoroughly annoyed.

Like his predecessor, Erik was not a proponent of _bleeding_ a patient for the sake of healing. _For other reasons, maybe, but that was rather beside the point_. Despite common practice at the time, Erik always thought it somewhat counter-productive to the recovery process. At the very least he felt there _had _to be a better way.

_So much like Dr. Gagnier_, his mind taunted, _Always looking for a better way_. He shoved the thought away with no small amount of bitterness.

Still, he'd overheard their conversation; the idiot man was on the verge of… limping… away on some fool's errand and dragging his too-trusting daughter along with him. It was utter insanity, and Erik would not stand for it. And so… he had _compromised_. Although the very word brought a sour taste to his mouth, it was unacceptable that Christine come to harm through no fault of her own.

It was decided, therefore, that Erik would go through the motions that were clearly expected of him… and then do whatever "witchcraft" he was using to cure the man. It was tedious work, in his opinion, and utterly redundant. Not to mention it meant he had to endure more hated physical-contact.

But… it kept Christine under his roof a little longer, and so he would comply.

Instead of what one would find in a traditional physician's office, he had an arsenal of tools and medicines that he had acquired or improved upon in his travels. It was a full blend of Eastern and Western medicine with inventions of his own design. It was, perhaps, an accurate mirror of most everything in Erik's life.

Since he fled the asylum on that fateful night, Erik used his time wisely and become quite a well-traveled man. He'd floated from town to town, never staying in one place very long, grasping for every experience and soaking up all the knowledge he had been denied in his youth. He had vowed never to let his mind atrophy in idleness and had attacked every opportunity to keep that promise.

And he had prospered in every way. When he had returned at last, he found his skills had great opportunity to put into practice. If it was at all possible, Erik was… happy here. Content, at least, which was probably why he had remained so many years.

That… and he was _needed_. He had underestimated the feeling it would inspire in him. Once he had scoffed at such an idea... insisting on the conviction that _power _was all one required. But, in his maturity, he was surprised to find it oddly pleasing to know that people existed who would not thrive if not for his presence. It was a different type of power… and he was loath to give it up.

The mask remained his biggest hindrance, as it always had. Only in his most self-depreciating moments did he mourn what he could have become, if not for what lay beneath the piece of fabric. Even in this place—no, _especially _in this place—he could not remove it. And that knowledge frustrated him greatly.

He had developed many prototypes over the years, each lighter and more accommodating than the last, but they were still too cumbersome for him to function as efficiently as he was able. It restricted his breathing and blocked-out portions of his peripheral vision. He had adapted accordingly in _most _cases… but, at times when he required absolute concentration and freedom of movement, the mask had to go.

Which was why he preferred working alone, even when an extra set of hands would be useful.

This was, unfortunately, one of those occasions. The subject had been so sick upon arrival that Erik was hesitant to give him too much sedative—especially before he had committed himself to the task actually treating him. The man began to revive just moments before Erik's examination had been completed and, thus, had caught a brief glimpse of his ruined face… or at least his _eyes…_ which, in a drug-induced haze, probably looked even more unsettling than they usually did.

He had been unfazed when the hallucinating old man called him a demon, albeit slightly insulted over the accusation of stealing the souls of young maidens he'd never met.

Perhaps that was why he accepted the case in the first place. The old man seemed utterly terrified… and that amused him. It had been a long time since he'd properly frightened anyone.

He realized rather quickly, though, that it was decidedly _less _appealing to frighten the man's daughter. For her sake, he strapped the subject down rather tightly and rendered him as insensible as possible before attaching the tube that would gently force the vaporized medicine into his ailing lungs.

Let her think that he was abusing the man in the name of treatment. Or whatever else the girl's innocent mind and the old man's delusional ravings could concoct. At least there would be no more talk faceless devils, stealing souls.

-0-0-0-

Christine had left her meeting with Erik feeling oddly… triumphant. She'd explained her father's wishes to the masked man and managed to stand her ground as he snarled and said all manner of unkind things against her father. Though she trembled all over, she refused to back down and, in the end, he had relented and agreed to consider her request. They were _both _truly surprised, she supposed, that she hadn't allowed him to bully her.

Frankly – if the hammering of her heart was any indication – it _still _surprised her. The man was utterly _terrifying_… and she had the distinct impression that he would just as soon kill her father and be rid of the inconvenience, so she knew crossing him was a risk. But he _did_ seem rather dedicated to fulfilling his half of their arrangement.

Which, truthfully, made her even _more _nervous; a man so committed to a deal would not take lightly to its being broken. She suspected there would be little room for negotiation when her end of the bargain came due.

Far too wound-up to rest, and with several hours remaining until the evening meal, Christine decided she would take a little walk around the facility. She did not go far; she did not want to risk becoming lost, nor did she want to offend her hosts by wandering into private areas. Instead, she set about visiting the places she had already been but had not had time to explore: waiting areas, gathering rooms… perhaps they had a music room, since Erik seemed so fond of the art form. While she was at it, maybe she'd see if she could find another way to the dining room that didn't take her through the kitchens. If, at some point, she ever found herself needing to get from one place to another unaccompanied, she wasn't sure she would feel comfortable intruding on someone's work-space.

She passed by a couple of common areas, peeking quickly into each open door. She was certain she'd heard voices at one point or another during the day… surely there was _some_ place where people congregated to socialize. While she was not necessarily interested in making _friends_, Christine had been feeling the need for some social interaction beyond her father's accusations and Erik's constant staring. The idea of sitting and chatting with _normal _people was extremely appealing.

She just had to find them first.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, she noticed a light shining from under one of the doors. That seemed promising enough, so she knocked hesitantly on the door. There was no answer… but the warmth emanating from the small space seemed inviting, so she let herself in anyway.

The little sitting-room sure _looked _comfortable, but it quickly became evident that she would not be finding the companionship she sought.

Jacques sat at a table, engrossed in a chess game with a man she had yet to meet. A matronly looking woman, with chubby cheeks and a glazed expression, sat by the only window, rocking serenely in her chair as her fingers expertly twisted and knotted spider-like thread intricate patterns. Beside her rested a basket, over-flowing with yards upon yards of lace. The three ignored her, completely silent but for the light rustling of fabric and sliding of game-pieces.

Quickly realizing her company was not welcome, she backed out the door… pausing, only at the last minute, when the woman greeted her.

"Hello," she said with a grin. "Have you come for your veil?"

"Well… no… I just wanted to…"

"What a lovely bride you'll be."

"Excuse me? Uh… no… nothing like that. Ah… hello! I'm Christine. What's your—"

"Oh! Hello. Have you come for your veil?"

"_Now _she's done it," snarked the unknown man. Jacques chuffed in amused agreement and gave a sideways glance at Christine, who was backing toward the door with a mildly panicked expression.

"I was just walking around, you see. I see I've disturbed you, though. I'm sorry; I'll just be on my—"

"What a lovely bride you'll be!"

"Go on, poppet," said the man, waving Christine out, "we'll get her straightened out." Grateful for the dismissal, Christine quickly ducked out the door.

"Well," she said with a sigh, "No luck there…"

Discouraged, but no less bored, she took to walking again. Eventually her wandering feet led her to that mysterious red door. Hesitantly, her fingertips brushed the handle… but she stopped just short of turning it. Something about the place made her stomach lurch and, despite her usual curiosity, she wasn't so sure she _wanted_ to know what… or who… was shut away inside there.

She heard the soft pattering sound of slippered footsteps and flung herself away from the door, fearing she'd been caught. She backed up as quickly as she could and tried to look nonchalant.

A woman passed by her without a glance. She was oddly dressed in what appeared to be pajamas of some sort… really, they were not unlike the clothes her father had been wearing recently. _Does Erik have another patient? _She wondered. The woman did not _appear _sick, but Christine knew she was not necessarily the best judge of such things. _Still, if she _is _ill, yet able to stand and walk… why does she not get herself to the hospital? _It also struck her that Erik did not seem to be the philanthropic sort of man who would save the life of any poor soul who dropped on his doorstep. She contemplated what sort of promise the intimidating man had extracted from her in exchange for his services.

Heedless of Christine and her pondering, the woman shuffled by and stood before the red door. For a long moment, she merely stood and stared at it. Then Christine saw her shoulders began to shake violently.

Before she could say a word or make herself known, the woman flew into a sudden rage. She let out an anguished shriek, the likes of which Christine had never before heard.

"I hate you!" she screamed again and again, fists and feet attacking the red door with fury so bright it burned itself out far too quickly. After only a few minutes, the woman exhausted herself and pressed her forehead against the door frame, whispering her angry mantra – _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you –_ with tears streaming down her cheeks.

After a moment, Christine's shock abated somewhat and she contemplated whether to help the woman or leave her to her obvious grief. Just as she came to her decision, though, a man rounded the corner. It was Jean-Pierre, and he met Christine's eyes briefly before stepping around her and draping his arm over the sobbing lady.

"There you are, love," he murmured softly. "Do you feel better now? That's my girl." He petted the woman's hair for a moment before giving her an affectionate kiss to the temple. After she'd dried her tears and composed herself, he suggested, "I spotted a frangipane tart cooling in the kitchen earlier. Why don't you go and see if the ladies will cut you a piece, hmm? Just tell them I sent you."

The woman floated off like a specter and Jean-Pierre watched after her for a moment, hand lightly grazing the door where she'd attacked it. She'd managed to leave a small scratch in the wood with her nails, but it nearly disappeared amongst the thousands of other dents and scrapes littering the room that had been very much abused over the years.

Only after she had passed out of sight did Jean-Pierre finally turn to Christine.

"This is a difficult time of year for her," he explained. "Don't you worry, she'll be right as rain by tomorrow, you'll see. Maybe in a month or so I'll introduce you properly."

Christine gave a forced laugh. "Well, I doubt I shall be around by that time… but I thank you for the gesture, all the same." It was an awkward joke, and fell rather flat, but Jean-Pierre gave her a speculative look, all the same.

"That's right," he said, after a moment. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, for I am afraid we don't entertain much company here. It is easy for us to forget how the rest of the world works. People always coming and going… it's very temporary."

Unsure how to respond to that, Christine just nodded and did her best to appear understanding. Jean-Pierre chuckled and shook his head as if to forcibly clear a thought from it. One of the spikes in his brow wiggled from the movement and Christine cringed at the sight.

"Well, enough of that," he declared. "Perhaps I should see you to your room."

"But I—"

"Now, now… everyone knows it's not good to have too much excitement, and I'll bet you get more than your fair share dealing with _him _all day. Let's get you back to your room so you can rest and refresh yourself before supper."

-0-0-0-

"I notice that my room is always immaculate when I return to it each evening." Christine noted when they reached their destination. She opened the door and, as always, the bed was neat as a pin and everything was as perfect as it had been the day she'd first arrived. True, she tried to be tidy and straighten up after herself, but the place nearly sparkled.

"Do you… do you take turns with the cleaning as well? That is to say… is there something I should be doing?" It was an awkward topic for her, being waited on. Her status here was somewhat unclear – she was a guest, she supposed, but she hadn't exactly been _invited_ and she had no prior relationship with these people. And if those attending her were not Erik's _servants_ then… well… she did not like the feeling that she was the only one in this house not earning their keep.

"No… that'd be Maurice. Every morning he starts on one end of the house and doesn't stop cleaning until he reaches the other end."

"Oh! He certainly doesn't have to go to any trouble on my account!"

"Yes, he does. He… well, I suppose you'd have to meet him to understand. There's really no stopping him, so we've quit trying. We just let him have his way... it is all he knows how to do, anymore."

-0-0-0-

The evening's music lesson seemed particularly intense, Erik thought. Something had changed; he could sense it in her voice. The difference was barely noticeable… but there, nonetheless. Christine was jumpy, excitable… practically vibrating with an odd composite of emotions that Erik could _notice _but not _define_.

It frustrated him, as did most things concerning her. When it came to… feelings… he had enough difficulty sorting them out one at a time. _And now this strange girl waltzes in with a whole jumble of them. _

The development was not entirely negative, he supposed. It was… different… whatever it was that was welling up within her seemed to bubble out through her voice. But he rather liked that fact that her tone was beginning to show a sparkle of life. Even nervous energy was an improvement over _nothingness_.

As he politely fetched her a glass of water, he made up his mind to initiate a conversation.

"You are preoccupied," he noted. "Is something causing you anxiety?"

"No more than usual," she said. Erik frowned, displeased that she should feel stress while under his roof. She must have noticed, for she quickly amended, "Just… worried about my father, that's all."

_Ah._The old man. That made sense. "He will be cured of his illness," he stated firmly. "Does this alleviate your worry?"

"Well… perhaps… I mean…"

Erik waited patiently and attentively for her to finish her sentence. He was careful not to fidget or even blink, lest he distract her. And, yet, after a moment of fumbling, the girl seemed to deflate slightly.

"You must tell me what has changed!" he insisted. "Why are you different today than you were yesterday?"

She had the audacity to laugh, then. Although… she did not appear to be mocking him, and the action did seem to relax her minutely. Briefly he wondered if she suffered from a nervous tic… but he banished the thought, finding it far too alarming to contemplate.

"It is nothing major," she assured him. "And nothing terrible. I just… I have had an interesting day. That is all. I feel… energized."

"Tell me about your interesting day."

"It is nothing that you would care about, I imagine."

"That is a possibility. You will tell me… and _then _I will know if I care about it."

The small smile faded from her face and she began to look awkward again. "Please," he added, realizing he must have erred somehow .

"Um… really it was nothing," she mumbled. "I just… I was able to help my father and I met some… people… and I've been having some wonderful dreams lately… and…" she paused and looked up, finally meeting his gaze. "What do you mean by _different_, anyway?"

"Your music is alive," he answered simply, willing her to understand.

He was disappointed, however. Her little brow just furrowed and her eyes darted like they always did when she was searching for something to say.

"Oh," she said, at last. "Well… we have you to thank for that, don't we? I mean, that _is _what you brought me down here to work on, yes? My singing?"

Erik merely hummed in thought. "I _am_ rather pleased with our progress during our short time together. You could go far, Mlle. Daae… has anyone told you that?"

For a few moments they chatted lightly about music and plans – or lack thereof – for the future. Erik found himself captivated every time she released a tiny detail about her life. He wanted to absorb it… all of it… every word, every gesture. As they spoke, he watched her with undivided intensity, determined to commit every part of her _being_ into memory.

When he realized that neither one of them had spoken for a long time, and that she was once again trying to avoid his eyes, he decided he would conclude their interaction. "Idle conversation is not something I take part in frequently… but I have found it pleasing. I thank you for indulging me. Would you be willing to do so again soon?"

"Of course. That sounds… ah… lovely."

"You are lying to me. Why?" He waited for a response, but she did not seem to be forming coherent thoughts. She shuddered, almost resembling a cornered rabbit. "Do I make you very uncomfortable?" he asked when she took too long to respond.

"N-no… of course not…"

"Another lie" he said, feeling a rush of heat flood his face. He did not appreciate dishonesty. Men and women had died for trying to fool Erik.

_But what if…_

Rose had lied to him once, he remembered. For years, he'd harbored a sense of betrayal for it… and yet... much later he had learned the true nature of her deceit.

"_Why? Why did you say such things?"_

"_My dear boy, I care for you. I wanted only to spare your feelings."_

"_But what did you stand to _gain _from it?"_

"_Only that, Erik."_

"_I do not understand."_

"_I know. And I am sorry for that, as well." _

Any rebuke he might have intended died instantly on his tongue. Instead he tilted his head back and considered her. Rose had lied to spare him pain. Perhaps Christine was doing the same? She seemed to be caring type of soul who would do such a thing… and it delighted him to think that the state of his heart _mattered _to the girl.

And so he accepted her lie with equanimity. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her stuttered attempts to deny.

"It is irrelevant, Mademoiselle. Think nothing of it. I know the truth."

Contented in his sudden revelation, he sent the girl away for the night. Then he settled himself in his favorite chair with a glass of wine. _I know the truth_, he'd told her. And he did. He had deciphered the truth behind her bizarre behavior.

She cared for him, he realized. And he laughed… just for the joy of it.

-0-0-0-

Maurice barely blinked when Erik materialized out of the shadows. Very little surprised the single-minded man and nothing ever disturbed him, which Erik appreciated greatly. The man asked no questions, remembered little, and was wholly indifferent to anything that did not directly concern him.

"Maurice."

"Mmhm, yes, I know you," the man mumbled, "I can't stay long, my broom's broke."

"I have brought you a new one." _That _did get the man's attention. He stopped what he was doing and peered intently at Erik, waiting.

"Do you have something for me?" he asked. Mumbling softly, Maurice felt around his pockets before retrieving a delicately embroidered handkerchief. Erik nodded and examined the item before making it vanish somewhere on his person. Just as quickly, he produced a fine quality broom passed it to the grinning janitor.

Without further acknowledgement on either end, the two parted ways.

-0-0-0-


	6. Chapter 6

**Spring 1840**

The additional dose of laudanum had kept Erik groggy and listless for the majority of the journey. So much so, in fact, the Etienne had begun to worry that he had overdosed the child. He was underweight for his age, but had fought through the initial dosage so quickly that the doctor had trouble judging his tolerance level. _Just another way the boy is inhuman,_ he thought, renewing his conviction that he had done the right thing to protect his dear Madeline from him.

At least it kept him docile, for which Etienne was exceedingly grateful. The exchange would go so much more smoothly if he did not have to physically fight Erik the entire way. As the carriage rolled to a halt beside the ominous looking building, Etienne managed to drag the boy to his feet and pull him up the stairs. Erik managed to walk on his own, but he unresistingly allowed the doctor to guide him through the double doors by the shoulder, blinking slowly and looking at his surroundings with glassy eyes.

When they were greeted at the entrance, Etienne produced some documents and asked to see Dr. Gagnier. Then he brought Erik to a comfortable chair and helped him into it.

Erik had just begun to drift off again when the door snapped open and he heard a friendly voice call out, "Etienne, my dear colleague! It is good to see you again!"

"César," he answered, just as warmly, "I assume you received my message."

"I did, I did… is this the boy you spoke of?"

"It is."

"And his…" Dr. Gagnier made a gesture to his own face while giving Etienne a pointed look.

"A deformity from birth. It affects his entire body."

"I see," he said, thoughtfully. "Well let's have a look, then." Wisely deciding to save the mask for another time, Dr. Gagnier instead began to remove the boy's jacket. He had barely pulled it off one shoulder, though, before the young man cried out and tried to recoil. The doctor frowned, gently peeling back one jacket flap, and gasped as he saw the brown stain of old blood over the shirt.

"What on earth happened, man?"

"A fight with some village children," Etienne explained. "He was injured, as you can see. I stitched him up as best I could, given the time and resources, but I was rather anxious to be on our way. I believe… I do believe this was the final push that caused his mother to see reason."

"I see. And is the mother here now?"

"I am afraid not. We thought it best that I handle the boy's welfare at this juncture."

Dr. Gagnier just nodded. "Yes, I know how sentimental mothers can be about these things. But it is good we are all in agreement now that this is for the best, no?"

"Of course, doctor. This is in everyone's best interest."

For the first time, he addressed Erik. "Well then, Erik… ah…" he paused, looking back though the folder of papers.

"Just Erik," Etienne supplied. "His mother does not wish to attach him with her last name. You can understand… small town superstitions."

"Of course. What town did you say that was again?"

Etienne paused, unsure if he should be perfectly honest in this. He wanted to distance Madeline from this… scandal… as much as possible, and rumors spread quickly in Boscherville. "Just a tiny village outside Rouen," he answered evasively.

Again, the doctor was unfazed, perfectly accustomed to admitting patients with gaps in their history. "Well then, Erik Rouen," he continued with a bland smile, "We will get you patched up and good as new, never fear."

**Winter 1864**

Erik found himself settling into a sort of rhythm during the two weeks of Gustave's convalescence. He administered treatment as scheduled and saw to his other charges, as well, holding regular meetings with Jean-Pierre, who was preparing for another surgery soon. Then, after he'd sped through whatever tedious business he couldn't shirk, he could spend the rest of the afternoon observing his little guest as she kept vigil at her father's side. One would think it would grow tedious—essentially watching someone watching someone who didn't do much at all—but her patient movements and soothing murmurs could keep him enraptured for hours. _How could she have such devotion toward a single person? _He wondered, _how can she spend all this time by the bedside of a person who does not even know she is there?_

When he could stand watching from afar no longer, he would demand her attention. Making comments about her father's health, even attempting to engage her in… small talk… which he rarely did otherwise.

It never seemed to please her, though, for which he blamed the old man. His presence obviously distracted her, so each evening he would draw the Christine away and into his own chambers where she could concentrate on _him _and their music. Occasionally he tried to interest her in one of his other projects, but she seemed ready to get on with their lesson.

And it _felt _like a lesson, though they had never discussed it as such. She seemed determined to keep a teacher-student distance between them… especially after the stilted attempt at camaraderie he'd made early on. He'd hoped he had made progress that evening, but she made no other indication of affectionate feelings for him – that he could discern, at least – and, if possible, seemed even more distant and uncomfortable than she did before. While that, in and of itself, did not trouble him, he found it rather distressing that, the more sociable he forced himself to become, the more eager she was to return to the old man's side.

And so their relationship would remain a professional one. That was fine with him, he supposed. She had a fine instrument and he would be honored to be the one to polish it.

And that was precisely what he did. He was her exacting instructor by day… but closed his eyes in ecstasy at night, when he became her adoring audience.

He came to her as an angel, believable only out of sheer exhaustion or a compliance-inducing potion slipped into her tea, and convinced her to sing for him. Technical errors – if there were any – went entirely unnoticed as he allowed himself to be transported to rapture by the passion in her voice.

Never once did he consider coming to her as a man. Erik-the-man saw her every day and she was obviously… not fond of him. Erik-the-angel could enjoy her perfection without fear of disgracing himself with his awkward behavior.

By the time Christine inevitably succumbed to sleep, Erik felt more energized than ever. Much of the night was spent holed up in his chambers with his composition. If he slept, it was only when he passed out over his piano. If he ate, it was only when one of the cooks shoved a pastry in his hand as he took the kitchen shortcut to Christine's room.

Every day he drew closer to her, even knowing his time with her would soon come to an end. He spent more and more time observing her… nursing an emotion he couldn't identify and blindly grasping for some unseen prize that seemed just out of reach.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

As time passed, Christine found herself thinking of the rumored "ghost" more and more often. No one she questioned seemed at all willing to speak of it. Once, in one of her rare bold moments, she dared ask Erik… but all he did was patronize her. He told her that no such ghost existed… had _ever _existed… and that he _had_ thought her to be too intelligent to be swept away in superstitious nonsense.

"Let us speak no more of this," he'd told her. Then, with a note of warning, he added, "And I'll not have you harassing anyone else over this, either. Some people here are easily frightened; it is quite cruel of you to put dark thoughts into their heads."

Still, thoughts began to plague her. It disturbed her that things would often appear and disappear in her room without her knowledge. However – and perhaps this disturbed her _more – _she'd found her memory becoming more faulty since arriving at this place. Everything she discovered or misplaced had a reasonable explanation. One day, her hairbrush went missing and, later that evening, one of finer quality rested in its place. Rose patiently explained that things would occasionally get swept away when the laundry was removed and surely someone had felt it polite to replace it. When her handkerchief disappeared, someone hypothesized that she must have dropped it, which seemed so obvious she felt foolish for not thinking of it… even though she was _sure _she'd left it in her room that day. Eventually Christine was not sure what occurrences were truly unexplainable or simply lapses in memory on her part.

Embarrassed, she stopped asking.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Touching him as little as possible, Erik pressed his stethoscope against Gustave's chest and listened carefully.

"His lungs are nearly clear," he declared, looking to Christine. "He should be well enough to look after himself soon. Two days, at the most."

Though Gustave was technically the patient, Erik addressed Christine almost exclusively. _He_ would have just as soon attended the old man in silence and then thrown him out on his ear the moment he could stand… but Christine seemed disproportionately concerned with the man's health, and he felt somehow compelled to keep the young woman apprised of the state of her father's recovery.

Another strange affection tugged at him and he felt the need to offer some sort of consolation or… advice. To be helpful beyond what was strictly required. "It would suit him well to be up and moving. And begin making whatever arrangements will be necessary once he leaves here."

The young woman looked up at him, tears forming in her eyes. Only years of practice kept Erik from stumbling back in alarm. Why was she _crying_? What had he done? Had he been anything _but_ helpful?

The panic upon seeing his female—_his?_—in tears quickly dissolved into anger. _How dare she be so ungrateful!_

Through gritted teeth, he reminded her not to be late for their music session before stalking from the room… stopping at the doorway only after hearing his name softly murmured.

"Thank you," Christine whispered.

Despite the tears, she seemed… sincere. Which seemed odd. Why issue thanks for doing a job he told her he would do? He nodded curtly, but left a little less angry than before.

_Strange girl._

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Something troubles you, child. Tell your papa what is wrong."

"Oh, Papa… what will we do?"

"What we always do, my little darling… survive."

"But _how_? We have no money… I don't even know how I am meant to pay for your care here!"

He patted her hand with a kind smile. "Do not you worry yourself about that, Christine. Your Papa will work something out. I will look for work in the town until we have enough saved to buy passage on a ship. Where would you like to go this time? Back home to Sweden? Or shall we stay in France a little longer? We could visit the city! Would you like that, my girl? We could – "

A month ago, Christine would have smiled and let herself be swept away by his fanciful chatter. Those had been simpler days. She had happily trotted after her father wherever the wind took him, never once giving thought to whatever lay beyond their current adventure. Sure, some nights she went to bed wishing her toes were warmer and her belly was fuller, but she was content to let Gustave fill her head with dreams and fairy tales. He always cared for her and, if he struggled, he never once let on.

But those carefree days were behind her now and, even as she mourned their loss, she did not believe she could ever return to them. In a short time, she had gone from trusting child to a woman who had the burden of another person's _life _on her shoulders.

"No, Papa… you know it is not that easy. You know as well as I do how costly medical care can be and you –"

"Dear girl, I know _Erik_ is a frightening figure, surely _someone _in this mad house has some sense. Go and have one of his accountants draw up a bill and explain that we will make installments. I should have some coins saved from –"

"No, Papa, you do not. We are truly penniless, and I… I was so frightened. I thought you would die. All I could think was that I would do whatever it took if it meant you could stay with me. I… I promised them anything. I didn't know what… I still don't know. It is something Erik is to decide."

Gustave's face went impossibly white. "Christine… what have you done?"

"I don't know. I did not know what to do! You… you don't remember what happened. Our money was stolen, I sold everything just to pay for a room. When we came here, we hardly had the shirts on our backs. My dress was ruined; they had to give me that, too." She looked down at the lovely blue dress she was wearing, feeling slightly embarrassed. Unlike the last, it was new and very fine. Too exquisite for a destitute woman… but it had been laid out in her bedroom and, as with the hair-ribbon, she'd been unable to resist. It had been nice to feel beautiful… but now she couldn't help the feeling that she was only sinking herself deeper into a situation she did not understand.

The old man's frowned as the weight of their position started to finally dawn on him. "We are very much in their debt, I suppose." She nodded. "Is it too much to hope it was all in the name of Christian charity?"

Christine's sniffles blossomed into full blown sobs. Immediately Gustave put his arms around her, rocking and shushing his little girl. "What did you promise, Christine?" he asked gently. "What do we owe these people?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. I told them I would do anything and they made me promise. Erik will decide… but he has not told me yet. All I know is that, whatever it may be, I must not refuse."

He sighed, unable to do more than simply hold her. "It will be fine. We will find a way."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Erik listened to the exchange between the man and his daughter with great irritation. The old man was a fool! He did not deserve Christine. He could not protect her… provide for her. He could not even comfort her properly!

"Is that you, Erik?" a soft voice called. Rose laid a gentle hand on his arm, not flinching at all when he habitually jerked away.

His voice was strained. "Why is she so devoted to him?" he asked.

"She loves him," was her gentle reply

"But _why_?"

Rose just sighed. "When you are in love, you will understand."

He growled at her placating answer. He was not a child to be condescended to. _Besides_… "It is… utterly unreasonable. Obviously the child does not know her own heart. He is pitiful… a withered old man who can offer her nothing but heartache. He is unworthy… and so… and so _he may not have her_! Yes. Yes Erik will take her from him and protect her. Erik will care for her and she will never want for anything ever again. Erik can make her problems disappear… _Erik can make anything disappear_." Erik breathed deeply, as if his conclusion had taken a great weight off of him. "Yes," he decided, "she will be mine and she will no longer be troubled."

Rose heard the clicking of Erik's heels as he decisively marched down the corridor. She would do nothing to stop him… but she grieved for the little boy he had once been.

**Spring 1840 **

A sharp pain had drawn Erik somewhat out of his stupor and he became aware that he was being disrobed. He made a weak noise of pain and protest and lifted his hand to reassure himself that his mask was in place. The doctor said a few words to him… something about being good as new. And something having to do with the city of Rouen, which was odd since he was certain he'd never been there. He felt a pang of _loss _and… _finality_… when his mother's lover passed over a thick envelope, shook Dr. Gagnier's hand, and left him alone.

"Come along now, son," the doctor, "No reason to sit around out here. You may wait in my office while I set you up with some more comfortable accommodations."

Erik was led to Dr. Gagnier's personal office and provided with a rag and bowl of warm water. "See if you can manage to get that jacket off," he instructed. "Just do the best you can. I'll be back in a moment with some attendants in case you need a hand."

Erik just nodded and reached for the rag, wincing as he tried to pry the fabric of his shirt away from the dried blood.

He'd been at it only a few minutes when he was startled by a muffled, feminine cough. He turned so abruptly that the water bowl fell from the table and clattered to the floor. Erik cursed and rather gracelessly tried to gather up his supplies and clutch his aching side at the same time.

"It's alright," said a young woman. She stooped and picked up the fallen bowl that Erik was struggling to reach. "Not to worry. See? All better."

Erik blinked at her, waiting for some rebuke that never came.

"You must be new here, yes? Hello, then. What is your name?"

He looked at her warily but answered, nonetheless.

"That's a nice name, Erik. My name is Rose. I suppose you miss your mother, don't you?"

Erik shrugged. "I miss Sasha. I miss my dog."

Rose just smiled kindly and took his hand. Erik's instinct was to jerk away… but her hand was very soft and her voice was very gentle. And he wondered if anyone had ever smiled _at _him before. He could not bring himself to withdraw.

Perhaps seeing his confused acceptance, she squeezed reassuringly. "Do not be afraid, Erik. You're safe here."

"Here we are, M. Rouen," announced Dr. Gagnier as he entered with a set of neatly folded clothing. "Has there been any progress with—"

"Dr. Gagnier," the woman interrupted.

The doctor seemed startled. "Rose! What are you doing here?"

"Surely you know. I wished to speak with you about—"

"Yes, yes… of course, my dear," he answered, hastily glancing at Erik. "Perhaps we might find a better time, though. As you can see—"

"Doctor!" a voice shouted. A nurse dashed into the room and passed Dr. Gagnier a clipboard. "You are needed urgently. The patient in number 5 is having fits again."

The doctor looked up with wide eyes. "Very well," he answered. "I shall be there presently. I trust you'll see to it that our newest patient is cleaned up." And, as quickly as he came, he was gone from the room.

As the nurse escorted Erik from the office, he took a longing glance back at the kindly woman. She nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. "_Be strong_," she mouthed.

The next hour was a terrifying blur. They'd taken his clothes and his shoes and given him a shirt and trousers that more resembled nightclothes than anything a proper person would wear. He'd been poked and prodded and asked all sorts of questions without answering any of his own. He bore it all, though… trying to be strong, despite his trembling. At last, though, one of the attendants pushed him too far.

"We'll be needing that, too," the man said, gesturing to the mask.

"NO!" Erik cried, covering it protectively with his hands. But the man was larger and much stronger and easily pried it away from him…

…only to stumble back in undisguised horror. He let out an undignified screech, which was enough to send the over-stressed boy into a rage.

"GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK!" he screamed, lunging at the man, attacking him with nails, teeth, anything he could use against him. The attendant called for help and there were loud footsteps echoing in the hall.

Erik must have blacked out then, for the next thing he knew, he was alone in a cell. The floor was wet, as was he, as if sprayed down with cold water. He was confined in some sort of tunic that crossed his arms and pinned them. He quickly squirmed out of it, wondering who in their right mind would have invented such an impractical piece of clothing. It was dark, but he could easily the outline of his mask in the corner of the room. With a shout of triumph, he lunged for it. Only when it was firmly attached once again was he able to breathe and think clearly.

His wound had opened and blood had begun to spill out of the soaked bandage. Briefly he wondered if they would return and "patch him up, good as new" or if he would be permitted to bleed out. With nothing else to do, he gingerly reclined on the hard mattress and watched the door with a jaundiced eye. If he strained, he could just barely make out low voices outside.

_Eight year old male… prone to rages… erratic behavior. A possible candidate for the program. _

_You sure? He's awfully young. _

_We will watch his progress… perhaps as…_

The voices faded, leaving him alone to make sense of the words. Perhaps it would give him something to ponder on this sure-to-be-sleepless night.


End file.
